


The Multyple Saeran's

by CherryxxBoy



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, MC is mentioned, Other, Sae exploring himself, Saeran is aware of the other personalities, therapeutic writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 05:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14036841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryxxBoy/pseuds/CherryxxBoy
Summary: Saeran has been dreaming about a man just like him.





	The Multyple Saeran's

[Who am I?]

 

I ask myself.

 

I always ask myself something. Who am I? What is my favorite food? What am I doing here?

 

[Is who I am my true self?]

 

I don’t really know the reason, nor do I actually search for answers. Maybe I just like to keep a track on myself, to be sure I haven’t wondered somewhere else.

  
My jacket feels heavy on my shoulder as I walk past the garden. Another me-mystery (as I like to call it) is why I wear it like this. I let it hang over one side, and wear it correctly on the other. I don’t get it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it feels like something else.

 

My presence is ghostly in this infinite flower scenery. The garden is one, if not the most, beautiful place in Magenta. One of Savior most precious work of art. A smile creeps in my face as I think how much she cares for all of us to grants us with such a splendid view. She is a mother to all of us, providing us an existence, somewhere to belong.  
But the warmth soon vanishes, as its replaced by the usual emptiness in my chest. I appreciated my Savior’s work, and I often take walks in here when I have the time. The problems arise when I enter, and it rejects me. The grass, the flowers, the furniture. It all rejects me, as if I wasn’t supposed to be there. I’m not the one who belongs in here. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not...

 

[No. I am only a part of what I could have been]

 

Sometimes, I dream. I dream of a fragile boy, who looks just like me. But as an animal disguised to fool their pray, that couldn’t be further from the truth. We are more than just different.  
He wears a magenta suit, and has the appeal of a prince. Always groomed, with a blue rose in his pocket. At first, he looks reliable, strong. A gentleman who lives up to their appearance. What a foolish lie.

  
I discover then the truth about the garden. He is the one that fills the place, and I’m only the ghost that replaces what cannot be replaced. He likes the flowers, and the flowers like him. They are his friends. The only ones he had ever had. Or so I think, as it feels I’m forgetting something. Someone.

That man made no effort to hide the crybaby weakling he is. Crying and crying all the time, cursing himself. Weak. Airhead. Idiot. Not even a single part of me feels empathy for him. I wish he would stop – he never does. During those dreams, I am forced to drown in his tears and become deaf in his cries. It’s painful. The room is all pitch-black, a sharpening silence only broken by himself (myself). I wonder if the pain will ever go. It doesn’t.

 

Its all pain, pain, pain, pain, pain… and then it’s not.

 

During the middle, it ceases. I can’t ever seem to remember that it does, because the feelings don’t change. Insufferable pain. Screams that demand to get out of my chest. Tears. Until someone comes in the room, and pitch-black turns into color. I hear her (I don’t know how I know it’s a her) approach the man in its kneels, and his gaze lifts. Everything is okay. The sadness goes away.

 

I wonder, if that is love. I wouldn’t know. But it felt like love.

 

[But then, will ever have a true self?]

 

Other days, I dream of someone in black suit, with a peculiar small chain attached in the neck. I feel powerful. Wild, unstoppable, strong. Afraid.

 

He himself is a very peculiar person. His face is adorned with a grin from cheek to cheek, like a cat. A stray cat. If I had to compare, the magenta man would be a house cat. This one belongs in the outside, biting the hand that feeds it, fleeing, but always coming back. His obsessive laugh covers the entire room ; a maniac treat, I suppose. I have experienced the same kind of laugh; mine is different, though. A cry for help, the sound of a broken person. His is just that. Empty laughter meant to fill.

He is violent, unstable, and has a suppressed hatred residing in his heart. Mostly for himself, he will never admit. He looks like he is about to lose his mind, if he hasn’t already.  
I should be scared, I know. I am not. In fact, is the other way around. Unlike before, I do not replace his body. I encounter myself standing in front of the maniac, looking down upon him as he shakes. He refuses to look at me, bursting out incoherent words at my figure. We are similar, so he is forced to face the one thing he cannot pretend to be strong for. The truth. The hidden truth of what he really is. Just a weakling like the crybaby man, playing to be an adult.

 

The door is slammed as he bolts out of the room, murmuring something about a toy. I am left alone, with all the gripping anxiety and fear in my chest. It hurts, too. But after a while, it stops, too. Peace comes uninvited, and sooths the pain. In my recovery, I feel something else healing the wounds that are not mine.

 

 

I wonder if its love, too.

 

[No, I won’t. There will always be an infinite of me]

 

It happens rarely. I would dare say almost never, a 2 in a word of 0s and 1s. The rarest toy in the collection.

 

Another man, just like me. He has brilliant red hair, as I used to. A sweater and common jeans are his thing. The human form of calmness, as I described him in my head.  
He didn’t look up. His gaze was friendly with the floor, and his sleeves would be the protectors of his hands. He is always hiding himself. I wonder if he is shy. It doesn’t feel like shyness. Its more like someone who has done something terrible. So ever terrible, he can’t face no one anymore.  
Except those two. The other red-haired man, who I can’t seem to recognize during the dream. I hate him. I don’t know why; my body wants to puke whenever he comes into picture. I imagine myself chocking him to death. A total opposite of the guy that looks like me, who welcomes him coldly on the outside, while his heart warms up on the inside. It doesn’t bother me, really. Just more proof that he is not me, and I’m not him.

There’s someone else too. But I can’t never know. The person looks fuzzy, making it impossible to see beyond. I feel like I know them, or I was supposed to. My instincts tell me it’s a her, too. I have never been one to trust my guts; but only this once, I do.

 

These dreams are the most melancholic. I don’t understand. It’s the perfect world anyone would want. People that love you, search for you, save you. I wouldn’t know. I don’t know.  
I shoot the man a smile when the dream is coming to an end. During it, he acts like I’m not there. I think he can’t see me; until the last seconds, when he turns around, and smiles, too. A hopeful one. Hope. I wonder if there’s hope for me, if there was for that man.

Another difference from the rest of them is that, when I’m about to wake up, my shoulders feel heavy. I can’t breathe. My throat closes, as I try to desperately ask for help. I can’t breathe. I can’t live. I try to scream for help, but my voice dissipates. And then.  
A gunshot is heard, but my body is paralyzed. It stays like this, painful, for a long time. After a forever, I am finally able to move, and I lift my head to encounter the grave of a dead man. Why, why… Why?!

 

I wake up screaming and covered in sweat.

 

“Why...?”

 

My left side of the jacket, hanging, cries. The other one, perfectly placed, laughs at me.

 

[I’m just an empty shell that can be filled in more than a hundred ways.]

 

[Will I ever be saved?]


End file.
